It was Christmas eve!  The streets were white with snow; crowds of people were rushing through the castle square, seeking for Christmas-trees, and little presents for their children.  There were, however, fewer purchasers than usual.  The small traders stood idle at the doors of the booths, and looked discontentedly at the swarms of laughing men, who passed by them, and rushed onward to the Gens d’Armen Market.

A rare spectacle, exhibited for the first time during the reign of Frederick, was to be seen at the market to-day.  A funeral pyre was erected, and the executioner stood near in his red livery.  What!—­ shall the holy evening be solemnized by an execution?  Was it for this that thousands of curious men were rushing onward to the scaffold? that groups of elegant ladies and cavaliers were crowded to the open windows?

Yes, there was to be an execution—­a bloodless one, which would occasion no bodily suffering to the delinquent.  The eyes of this great mass of people were not directed to the scaffold, but to the window of a large house on Tauben Street.

At this open window stood a pale old man, with hollow cheeks and bent, infirm form; but you saw by the proud bearing of his head, and his ironical, contemptuous smile, that his spirit was unconquered.  His whole face glowed with flaming scorn; and his great, fiery eyes flashed amongst the crowd, greeting here and there an acquaintance.

This man was Voltaire—­Voltaire, who had come to witness the execution of his “Akakia,” which had been published in Leyden, and scattered abroad throughout Berlin.  Voltaire had broken his written and verbal promise, his word of honor; and the king, exasperated to the utmost by this dishonorable conduct, had determined to punish him openly.  And now, amidst the breathless silence of the crowd, a functionary of the king read the sentence—­that sentence which condemned the “Akakia,” that malicious and slanderous publication holding up the noble, virtuous, and renowned scholar Maupertius to the general mockery of Paris.

Voltaire stood calm and smiling at the open window.  He saw the executioner throw great piles of his “Akakia” into the fire.  He saw the mad flames whirling up into the heavens, and his countenance was clear, and his eyes did not lose their lustre.  Higher and higher flashed the flames! broader and blacker the pillars of smoke! but Voltaire smiled peacefully.  Conversation and laughter were silenced —­the crowd looked on breathlessly.

Suddenly a loud and derisive laugh was heard, and a powerful voice cried out:  “Look at the spirit of Maupertius, which is dissolving into smoke!  Oh, the thick, black smoke!  How much wood consumed in vain!  The ‘Akakia’ is immortal—­you burn him here, but he still lives, and the whole world will know and appreciate him.  That which is born for immortality can never be burned.” [Footnote:  Thiebault, p. 265.]

So said Voltaire, as he dashed the window down, and stepped back in the room.